


Love is not consolation, it is light.

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Humor, Comment Fic, Doomed Relationship, Hair, M/M, Manpain, Present Tense, Requited Love, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keep a light on those you love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is not consolation, it is light.

_Love is not consolation.  
It is light._

I.

When Fingon feels sentimental, which is not often, for life on Middle-earth leaves little room for sentiment, but when he is able to feel sentimental, he thinks often of Maedhros' hair.

It is remarkable stuff, even among high standards of their people.

II.

In Treelight, flush with the light of all-new love, it seems to Findekáno (that was) that his cousin’s hair too is lit by a holy radiance. Composed as it is, of golds and reds, of russets and coppers, into an alloy most beautiful.

III.

In the flickering torch-light of Tirion, wearing a mighty helm with a great plume of red, Maitimo (his friend that was) becomes a Son of Fëanáro, fearsome and faceless, and ever-bound to a blasphemous oath.

 

IV.

The raging fires of Alqualondë light upon him. His hair is slick with Telerin blood. As is his face. As are his hands.

 

V.

Looking back, Fingon wonders – because he does not know – what Maedhros looks like standing alone on that beach at Losgar, as his father burned the ships.

 

VI.

The light of the new sun is harsh upon Maedhros’ withered frame. His hair is the color and texture of dirty straw. Fingon raises his sword, and Maedhros does not flinch, though he cries out when he finds that he still lives.

VII.

Candlelight for Maedhros’ sickbed. Fingon does not see it, and cannot see him. Maedhros will not let himself be seen. Fingon is shut out, and Maglor’s attempts at placation fall on stony ground. Fingon makes the walls shake with his fury. He hurtles himself out of the house. He refuses all offers of hospitality, and he refuses the loan of Maglor's horse.

He trudges back home on foot, around the mist-clouded lake, now despondent. But not despairing.

Maedhros still lives, after all.

VIII.

The noonday sun shines upon them as they spar in the courtyard. Maedhros has the look of a penitent, his hair shorn close to his skull. They are evenly matched, and this contest has gone on longer than either had anticipated. Both are breathing hard, great panting breaths.

Finally Maedhros says, “I have made my decision, you know. I will give the crown to my uncle, your father.”

Fingon is taken by surprise, and Maedhros is upon him in a second, and disarms him in two.

Dazed, Fingon replies, “Indeed, I wonder what you will give up next to win a contest ‘gainst me.”

They laugh, but in truth, they do not know, and still cannot guess.

IX.

“Love, they say, softens the eye. The sight of the beloved is lit by the light of love, which is ever more kindly than that of reality. What say you to that?”

Fingon mutters that Maedhros would do well to leave the poetry to Maglor, which earns him a sharp elbow on the ribs. Wincing, Fingon looks at Maedhros, who rests his head on Fingon’s chest, unguarded for a moment, his eyes shut. Without much thought, Fingon runs his fingers through Maedhros’ hair, dark copper in the light of a single candle.

“I have always seen you as you are.”

Maedhros turns to him and gives him a half-incredulous look.

“And yet you still love me? Oh, Finno, you are a fool.”

Fingon leans down, and catches Maedhros’ lips.

“Yes, to both.”

X.

The future can hold only death now. It is better to look to the present. Fingon peers through the choking, hazy air; he searches the horizon for a flash of familiar red.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from Nietzsche, which I have used for my own purposes. Hmmm. Maybe this is a sign that I need to lighten up.


End file.
